“I’m, uh, the Chief.”
I know your nickname is Chief, Bobby. But you’re gonna make people mad at you.
“Where are they?”
“I don’t care.”
“Besides, uh, we got a thing going on here.”
“It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Stop talking to me like 14-year-old Henry Hill when he gets caught selling stolen cigarettes.
“All right, but you can’t say anything.”
“This whole sensual harassment thing?”
“I do it sensually.”
“Anyway, this whole ongoing kerfluffle? Well, uh, the RRS are getting a pass.”
“Remaining Rock Stars.”
“After 2016, everyone’s just happy to have any of us left, so we’re on the cuff as far as getting accused of anything. Grandfather clause, kinda.”
That’s great news.
I would imagine. How about you?
“Couldn’t care less. Never harassed anyone in my life. When I took it out, everyone in the room was happy. Sometimes, you know, it would get taken out for me.”
Nice when they do that.
“Shows they’re team players. But, yeah, harassment is when the chick doesn’t want it to happen. Girls used to break into buildings to meet us. Well, me.”
So you’re covered? I can’t read about any of you in the Times or the Post. They’re alternating pervert stories every day lately.
“You’re good. You all caught up on that?”
Got my daily fix today, yes.
“Pete Rose, huh?”
“The guy with the table?”
“I could see Pete Rose being one of those, though.”
Oh, hell, yes. Pete Rose has been grabbing at every tit he’s seen for six decades.
“Maybe it’s his turn next.”
Who can tell the future?